“Are you satisfied that it is what we thought — a true monstrosity of the Outer Darkness?”
“I am sure of it — nothing less could have withstood the formula I used. Besides, you felt its power.”
Vaughan nodded gloomily.
“Merlin succeeded, then?” he asked.
Gaunt laughed softly.
“Merlin! What does that name mean to the average man? A benevolent old man — a magician, true, but with a soul as white as his beard! What a lot we have to thank Mallory and Tennyson for, Simon. Little do they know what that being they call Merlin was: one of us, and perhaps the greatest wizard of all time. Yes, he succeeded in doing that which has never been done before or since: he made a gateway through the Veil, there in that very cavern, and admitted one of the horrors which dwell in Outer Darkness. I often wonder what he proposed to do with it. Perhaps he found it more intractable than he had supposed, and, unable to expel it again, bound it to this place.”
“Then it was here before the Abbot pronounced his curse on the Lovells?”
“Undoubtedly. His words, inadvertently phrased in the form of the Osirian ritual, coupled with his intention of ruining the Lovell family, merely served to link their destiny with it.”
“Do you think we shall be able to turn it to our purpose?”
Gaunt frowned.
“First it must be released from its bondage to this family, and neither you nor I can do that.”
“Who, then?”
“Anthony Lovell.”
“That young fool?”
“No one else. I have already begun his training; he does not know to what end, naturally, nor will he until it is too late.”
Chapter VIII
John Hamilton was walking down Fleet Street one afternoon when his soul suddenly rebelled against the tyranny of London. It was the second week in August, and for nearly a month no rain had fallen. The shortage of water was already growing acute, and there was talk of rationing the supplies. Devastating heath fires were daily reported.
In the city the heat was well-nigh intolerable; the dust rose in clouds from the wheels of the roaring traffic, drying Hamilton’s throat, making his eyes smart, and tasting gritty in his mouth. His shoes seemed no protection against the heated pavement; life itself appeared to be a refined torture at that moment.
He thought longingly of escape from the Metropolis, but where should he go? In the open country it would be little better: the fields were burnt brown; the hedgerows thick with a pall of white dust. Where, then? Yellow sands; a cool breeze from the sea; the black shadow of mighty cliffs: this inviting picture rose in his tired brain. There the sun would blaze in a sky of cobalt instead of vibrating against the brazen lid of London.
Three months ago Tony had invited him to Kestrel. Why should he not avail himself of the invitation now, and seek a short respite from toil? True, Tony had not mentioned the matter again in the brief acknowledgment he had written in reply to Hamilton’s letter of sympathy after his father’s death, but then he was probably worried with other matters at the time. So Hamilton told himself, but he could find no similar explanation for the way in which his friend had completely ignored another letter he had written him, only a couple of weeks ago, when the idea of accepting Tony’s invitation had recurred to him. In spite of his knowledge of his friend’s casual habits over letters, this silence worried him a little, and in response to some subconscious prompting he had called at Dr. Gaunt’s house in Hampstead to see whether they had any news from Kestrel. There he had found the shutters up and the place apparently deserted.
Surmising that the doctor was still at Kestrel, Hamilton now began to wonder if Tony had fallen ill, in the same fashion as his father; and the sum total of his musings led him to Paddington next morning, suitcase in hand, en route for Cornwall.
The train was insufferably hot, and the journey seemed interminable; consequently it was with considerable relief that he finally descended from the local at Redruth. He had deliberately sent no word of his coming to Tony, making up his mind to stay at Pentock, and find out for himself how things were at the Abbey. He had no difficulty in hiring a car to take him to his destination, and within three-quarters of an hour he was in the sanded bar of the Three Fishermen, asking the red-faced landlord, Dykes by name, for a room.
After removing the stains of travel from his person Hamilton had a meal, unpacked his suitcase, and then strolled out into the cool evening, smoking his pipe.
He walked down the narrow cobbled street, with its row of whitewashed cottages, from whose doorways women, enjoying the sea breeze, eyed him curiously, to the harbour. A shoal of pilchards had just been sighted, and the boats were putting out. After watching the activity for a while he climbed the stepped pathway up the steep hillside, past the little church, with its squat grey tower, on to the cliffs.
Finding a spot where he could lounge and enjoy his pipe, his feet only a few inches from the brink, he sank down on the short wiry grass and gazed over the darkening sea. The sun was sinking in a haze of glory, obscuring the horizon, so that sea and sky were indistinguishable, and in the midst of the golden glow Kestrel Island hung between heaven and earth. In silhouette, the merging of island rock and Abbey walls was quite lost, and the whole seemed carved out of one mighty block of stone by some superhuman sculptor, and set there as a memorial to a forgotten past.
Hamilton’s mind flew back to the legend that it was the last remnant of lost Lyonesse, where Merlin built his faëry castle.
“The island valley of Avilion, where there is neither hail nor rain, nor any snow, nor ever wind blows loudly,” he quoted softly, and awoke from his reverie with a start, as a voice behind him remarked:
“I always understood that the vale of Avalon was generally considered to be at Glastonbury, but then, I may well be wrong.”
The speaker sat down beside him, and Hamilton saw a slight figure in a shabby cassock, with a gentle, scholarly face surmounted by a shock of snow-white hair disheveled by the breeze.
“My name’s Bennett,” said the stranger, “Michael Bennett. I’m rector at St. Martin’s here. You are a visitor, of course.”
Hamilton introduced himself, and the two shook hands. The rector continued:
“That smells like an excellent tobacco. May I beg a pipeful?”
He took an ancient briar from his cassock pocket and began to fill it from Hamilton’s pouch.
“You see, I am a poor man,” he explained simply, “and I have smoked my allowance for the week.”
He lit up, and smoked in silence for some minutes; then:
“You are a writer, of course? A poet, perhaps?”
“Hack-work, mainly, I’m afraid.” Hamilton shrugged deprecatingly. “I can’t afford to write as much poetry as I would wish.”
“But you do write a little. I thought as much, though I must admit that the Abbey looks lovely enough tonight to awake the poet in any man.”
“Do you know Sir Anthony?” asked Hamilton.
“The present one, you mean? Not very well. I have spoken to him once or twice. I knew his father well. You heard of the tragedy?”
Hamilton nodded.
“Tony is one of my best friends.”
“Ah! You are visiting him, then?”
“No, not yet. I’m staying at the Three Fishermen tonight. He doesn’t know I’m here.”
“No?” The old man showed no curiosity, but Hamilton felt a strange urge to be utterly frank with this gentle, unassuming creature.
“I’m worried about him,” he went on. “He didn’t reply to my last letter — I haven’t heard from him for months. So I came down, partly to see if he was all right.”
“I see. I think I can reassure you on one point: he is in the best of health. I was talking to one of the Abbey servants — a man named Tregellis — only this morning. He comes across for provisions most days.”
“I’m very glad to hear that.” There was much relief in Hamilton’s voice. “Do you know if there is
anyone else staying there, sir?”
“There are two guests, Mr. Hamilton. There is Dr. Gaunt, who has been there since before old Sir Anthony died, and a Mr. Simon Vaughan, who came shortly after that unhappy accident.”
“Oh! Who is this Mr. Vaughan? Dr. Gaunt I know. It was I who found him for Tony.”
The rector blew out a cloud of smoke and turned his head slowly towards Hamilton.
“Really!” he said. “A charming man. I met him at the funeral. I believe Simon Vaughan in a colleague of his from London. A psychic investigator, I am told he calls himself. I hear all the gossip, you see, Mr. Hamilton.”
“A psychic investigator? What does it all mean, sir? What’s going on over there?”
“I think they are endeavouring to get to the bottom of this so-called curse. They hope to destroy it eventually. Or so I am told.”
Hamilton digested this information. Then he asked:
“What is your opinion about it all, sir? Do you believe there is any foundation for the legend?”
“Mr. Hamilton, when you reach my age you will learn never to scoff at other people’s beliefs, because those beliefs often come to have a real existence, simply because they are believed in. A great wrong was done on that island by the first of the Lovells, and hid descendants have believed ever since that they are suffering for it. It may be so, I cannot say. But the ways of the Almighty are infinite, and should not be examined too curiously. If Sir Anthony had listened to me he might have been alive today.”
“Why, sir — what do you mean?”
“He was a good Christian once, and used to come over to church every Sunday. He would lunch with me afterwards, and we had many long walks together. He told me of his conviction that somewhere in the vaults below the Abbey was hidden the thing, being — call it what you will — which was the embodiment of the curse. And the last time I saw him alive he expressed his determination to seek it out. I begged him to leave ill alone: to resort only to prayer, and the Sacraments of the Church. I even offered to go to the Abbey and perform the ancient ceremony of exorcism. I am probably an old fool, but I believe in these things, you see.
“He would not heed me; he did go down into that crypt, and what he found I don’t know, for I never saw him again. Even after he had recovered from his illness, through the ministrations of your Dr. Gaunt, he never came to see me, or to church even. And I am not one to thrust myself in where I am not wanted.
“So you see why I am appalled at the thought of your friend going the self-same way his father went. He seems a nice young fellow — I don’t suppose he is more than a nominal Christian, so few are these days, and he has not even that to support him. He and those friends of his are meddling with matters that should not be meddled with. I am desperately afraid for him.”
Hamilton sat silent for some minutes after the other had finished speaking. Darkness had fallen, and the first stars were beginning to sprinkle the deep blue overhead. The island was only a dark blot on the grey sea.
“Thank you for telling me all this, sir,” he said at last. “I must go to him, and see what I can do.”
“God go with you, my son,” the rector replied, getting to his feet a trifle stiffly, “and if an old man’s vapourings prove groundless, forgive me.”
Together they walked back down the steep path. The rectory stood close by the church, and at the gate the rector stopped.
“Are you a Catholic, Mr. Hamilton?” he asked.
“I was brought up in the Church of England,” the other had started to reply, but the old man broke in:
“No, no! I was not referring to our Roman brethren. I mean — do you use the Sacraments of the Church in which you were baptized? Don’t think me impertinent, but as one of the least of her priests I have a right to know.”
“I’m afraid I have not been very regular for some years. Things slide, you know, sir.”
“Yes, I know. But if you are going to that island, I would advise you to consider these things. They are rather important. And if you want any help or advice, come to me.”
“I will, sir, thank you. Good night.”
“Good night, my son. God bless you.”
They shook hands, and Hamilton strode off towards the village. The rector stood watching him for a moment, then he crossed himself, murmuring:
“Sweet Jesus, most strong, most holy! Guard Thy servant, who goes into the midst of so many and great dangers!”
He opened the gate and went into his own house.
While he was having a nightcap Hamilton told the landlord that he had met the rector:
“Ah, old Father Bennett!” exclaimed Dykes. “ ’E’s a good sort. Bit ’Igh, per’aps — incense and the likes o’ that, if you know what I mean, sir — but we likes ’im, we does. ’E means no ’arm. The fisherfolk love ’im like a father. Blesses their boats for ’em. ’E comes in ’ere for a glass now and then, with the best of ’em. Could do with more parsons like that, sir.”
Hamilton heartily agreed with this conclusion, and presently went to bed, with much to think upon.
He was awakened early next morning by the crying of the gulls over the harbour, as the boats came in, laden with the fruits of the night’s toil. After breakfast he began to explore the possibilities of getting to the Abbey. He particularly wished to avoid attracting attention by chartering a boat to take him across, and was considerably relieved to learn that Tom Tregellis invariably called at the inn when he came over for provisions.
He was sitting in the bar when that worthy entered, and, hearing the landlord call him by name, approached and offered him a drink. The dour Cornishman accepted without surprise, and they sat down at a little table in the corner, their tankards before them. Hamilton explained that he was a friend of Sir Anthony’s, and wanted to pay him a surprise visit, and after the tankards had been refilled several times Tregellis departed, telling him to be at the harbour in half an hour’s time.
There they met, Hamilton carrying his suitcase and Tregellis a basket of assorted groceries. They climbed down into the trim launch, and inside half an hour were climbing the worn stairway leading up to the Abbey.
The wicket in the outer gate stood open, and they passed through, Hamilton staring about him in amazement at the broad flagged courtyard, and the square bulk of the building rearing its turrets into the blue. He had not been on the island before, and was intensely interested by everything he saw.
Lorrimer, who must have been watching for the launch, appeared at the door, and stood waiting, looking rather doubtfully at Hamilton and his luggage. It was evident that uninvited guests were not a common feature of life on Kestrel. Tregellis, without a word of explanation, left his companion to his own devices and departed with his basket towards the rear quarters. Hamilton addressed Lorrimer:
“I don’t think Sir Anthony is expecting me, but I am an old friend — my name’s Hamilton.”
The servant’s face crinkled into a smile.
“Oh, yes, of course, sir. I’ve often heard Sir Anthony speak of you. He told me some months ago that he had invited you down. Will you step inside, sir? I will tell Sir Anthony you are here.”
Hamilton suffered himself to be led into the great hall and relieved of his hat and bag. Lorrimer asked him to be seated and retired towards the library.
Left to himself, the visitor stood with his back to the cavernous hearth, empty for once, since the great heat had penetrated even these ponderous walls. He looked round curiously, the least bit overawed by the mediaeval grandeur of the place, gloomy in spite of the narrow beams of sunlight which crept in through the high windows.
He had not long to wait, however, for scarcely had Lorrimer disappeared when Tony came bursting in, almost running across the stone floor to greet his friend.
“John, by all that’s holy! I am glad to see you, old man!” he cried, wringing his hand. “Do sit down. Why ever didn’t you let me know you were coming?”
“I came quite by chance, Tony. I just happened to be taking
a little holiday in the neighbourhood, and thought I’d pop over and look you up.”
“Well, now you’re here at last, you must stay for a while.”
“Thanks, I’d love to.” Hamilton was studying his friend narrowly. This was a different Tony, in spite of the familiar exuberance of his greeting — and even that was false. He was not glad to see him, and didn’t really want him to stay. There was a look of strain about his face, and a strange depth in the blue eyes, once so gay and careless, that sent a chill to Hamilton’s heart. His mouth, too, once the weakest point of the whole face, was now set in unnaturally firm lines.
“Didn’t you get my last letter, Tony?” he asked carelessly, taking out his pipe as Tony lit a cigarette.
“Yes, of course; thanks, old man — I answered it, surely?” Tony was intent upon his cigarette.
“You didn’t. I was a little worried.”
“What a careless beast I am, John! I know I wrote a reply. It’s probably still in a pocket somewhere. I am sorry!”
“It’s all right, Tony. I thought you might be ill, that’s all.”
“I was never better in my life. This place suits me absolutely. You were perfectly right about it, John, it’s marvelous. I can’t think why I never thought so before.”
“Is Dr. Gaunt still here?”
“Why, yes, he’s in the library now. You must come and meet him again. He’s a charming fellow. There’s a pal of his here too — chap called Vaughan — sort of spiritualist johnny. He thinks he can fix up the jolly old curse — more power to him! Now come along and see Gaunt.”
He literally dragged his friend off to the library.
As they entered, the doctor, who was sitting at the long table, strewn with books and papers, rose and came forward, saying:
“Ah, Mr. Hamilton! We’ve met before, I think.”
“Yes, Doctor, once. How do you do?”
They shook hands, and immediately Hamilton felt his vague apprehensions concerning Gaunt’s continued presence here disappear before his delighted personality. This man could do no one any harm, he told himself.
Dark Sanctuary Page 9